


Hate You Too

by Path



Series: Midnight City Stories [1]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-16 23:20:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many times can you stab a guy before you just don't hate him anymore?</p><p>= = =</p><p>Midnight City Stories</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate You Too

I hate this guy.

I hate this guy with the black-churning vacuum of a thousand snuffed-out stars.

But then, that's the same courtesy I extend to the rest of the world. This guy's just no exception.

He doesn't seem to get that, is all.

"Slick," he says to me, pushing up his hat. If it were black, I guess it'd be an okay hat. He's got the idea, anyhow. "Slick," he says, sort of mild and confused, "I thought we were pals."

I glare up at him and try to express just what I think about that statement in a clever line I can relate to the guys later. I end up just baring my teeth and snarling at him, and telling him that the last way I'd describe us two would be as stupid friendship buddies. I'll come up with a better one when I tell it to Droog.

He clutches his stomach and I generously remove the blade I've got shoved in there to make it easier for him. I wipe it off on his trenchcoat and stick it back in my jacket. Then I turn my back, tug my jacket straight, and walk out. His keys fall from his hand, and then he falls too, whispering his last words. I can't think of good ones.

In reality, of course, I only get to the door. Then something hits me square in the back. For a second, I think maybe he's wised up at last, finally stuck it to me when my back was turned. But no, whatever it is just bounces off. When I turn around, he's holding his side in pain with one arm, the other still extended from the throw. On the floor, a piece of crumpled paper rolls to a stop.

I bend to pick it up. How many times have I stuck this guy? How is he still here, still looking at me with tired puppy-dog eyes, no matter what I do to him? He cracks half a smile when I bend to pick up the paper. I glare at him. I'm told the effect is heightened with only the one eye. Then I open the paper ball up.

There's a picture inside, and a pretty crappy picture at that. What did he scrawl this with, a ballpoint pen? There's a sort of green scribble, and then a black scribble inside it with a big "8" plastered on it. His writing is terrible and I really never thought I'd see worse than Boxcars'. When I can decipher it, it points out the silly hat the figure is wearing, her skanky dress, and her name. I already know her name. Kindergarten crayon doodle or no, I'd recognize her anywhere.

I grab him by the tie and shove the picture in his face. "This some sort of joke, funny guy?" I ask him.

He coughs in pain and tightens his arm against his side. The red smear I'd left on his coat is starting to join up with the blood leaking from the knife wound. "Slick," he says, "do I look like the kind of guy who'd crack wise at a time like this?"

Really, there's no doubt about that. This guy is a total fucking joke. I tighten my hold on his ugly tie; tweed? Pretty much the ugliest thing you could possibly imagine. "Listen, bud," I demand, "You're gonna tell me where you saw Snowman and you're gonna tell me now."

"Gee," he says. "I dunno, Slick. Everything's kind of blurring together. Maybe I could remember better if I weren't dying like this."

"Godfuckingdammit," I tell him, "I will rip your eyes out if you don't tell me where you saw S-"

He holds his hands up in surrender, smiling weakly. One of his cuffs is wet and dark. Fills my heart with joy to see him like this. It does. "Easy, Slick," he says. "I'll tell you everything. Just got to... get things clear..."

I grit my teeth together and they grind like sandpaper. Fine. It's just going to be this way. Again.

I get his tie off and his shirt open, revealing a dozen other old scars- happy memories, all. I get the tie bunched up and pressed to the wound and my arm under his shoulders. Then I'm helping him out the door and down the hall. Why's it turn out this way, everytime? I hate this guy.

I hate this guy.

"I fucking hate you, Sleuth," I mutter.

"Hate you too, Slick," he says faintly. But his heart's not really in it.

And I'm worried mine isn't either.

**Author's Note:**

> The first of many short fics in my crossover Midnight Crew/Felt/Problem Sleuth world, Midnight City. Everybody can blame emesis and her awesome art.


End file.
